The Cousins Academies
by Elizabeth Firebreath
Summary: In a small city in modern day England, war is brewing. Anne Neville is at center of this conflict. Unlike those around her, she does believe she is the reincarnation of a royal of old. Little does she know that because she is set apart in this way, she is the only one who can break a curse cast on Lancaster and York to war for eternity.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One: Welcome to White Rose High

* * *

While my father may be a brilliant man, when he picked Three Sons of York Prep as the high school my sister and I would attend, he must have been having an off day.

I stand in front of the imposing building. No, building wasn't the right word; palace was closer to the truth. Large pillars, lush gardens, ornately carved everything; every detail was looked after it's the picture of excess. I groan inwardly; the thought of another three years in the hell hole was almost too much to bear.

At least there were only three this time. Edmund, the eldest, had graduated last year when I was a freshman. Unfortunately he had been the most bearable of the four. Still lurking the halls was the man-whore, Edward. The spoiled brat, George, and worst of all, Richard, who I wouldn't be rid of until we graduated.

My older sister, Isabel, catches me glaring up at the York Palace contemplating how to burn it down. she glares exasperatedly. Heredity is an unfair game, and no one knows that better than I. She had jet black hair, and such a fair completion, that most ivory foundation was too dark for her. He was tall and slender; she had inherited all the beauty of the family. I finger my dirt brown hair, and reflect back on when my mother attempted to comfort me about my height. She stated that when I started to get older, I would grow to be the same height as Isabel. So much for that! My five one to her five seven, It was unacceptable, really.

"What's wrong with you?" Isabel exclaimed. "You should be excited!"

Sometimes, Izzy said the most ridiculous things.

"Excited?" I scoffed, my tone laced with incredulity. "For school? Did you hit your head, or did your hair dryer just burn all your brain cells?"

Izzy gave me a conspiratorial look, and I knew what was coming.

"I don't know, maybe for a handsome young prince to sweep you off your feet this year."

I swallowed down a rebuke; it was no use. If I protested, Izzy would take it as proof that I was in love…with Richard. I could barely think the words without throwing up the waffles I had eaten this morning.

Here's the thing about the Three Sons of York Prep, or White Rose High, as I like to call it; everyone is kind of insane. I think it has something to do with the food they serve, which is why I have never eaten it in my life. You are only accepted into the school with a hefty fee, no scholarships. You also have to provide proof that you trace back to some English noble or royal of the fourteenth century. And I don't mean ' .com' proof. They're very serious when it comes to your bloodline. If that isn't bad enough, the reason why people care, is because everyone seems to think that they are not only descended from famous people, but actually are, like, the reincarnation of those people.

Crazy.

As you may have guessed, the three York sons think they're to be the Three Sons of York. The crazy kids who overthrew the Lancaster for a while then until they, again, get overthrown by Henry VIII's father. Anyway, my father, Richard Neville, can naturally trace his linage back to the kingmakers' family themselves somehow. It's my understanding that the two girls died without any heirs so I don't know how that's possible. Long story short, this is supposed to make me, Anne Neville, who marries Richard III. So obviously, it makes perfect sense that I should be expected to date Richard back-from-the=dead Zombiefied nowadays.

"Come on!" called Izzy, heels clicking up the marble. You read right; freaking marble. The elegant stair case leads up to the York Palace. I trudge reluctantly behind, begging for God to deliver me something tragic. A strike of lightning doesn't sound too bad right now, maybe a wayward bus. These things happen.

But alas, God spares me for another day of torture.

I realize if I am late to my first class, it will only go downhill from there. So, forcefully mustering as much courage as I have, I shuffle up after my sister-

-only to collide head first into my least favorite son of York.

He looks down, puzzled for a moment, as if it took him a few seconds to grasp that he had just collided headlong with someone. Something in my humble opinion, he should have understood from the get-go. When he finally realizes who I am, the bewildered look is quickly replaced with a look of annoyance; the feeling was _so_ mutual. He has broad shoulders, but other than that, looks nothing like the rest of his family. His black curling hair instead of golden brown, eyes the color of melted dark chocolate, unlike the dancing blue-green, an angular face as opposed to the planes characteristic of the Yorks. Their mother always insists that Edward was the bastard. But looking at them, you could clearly see the ugly duckling that never fully matured into a swan.

"I was hoping to avoid you until fourth period, but clearly you saw that you weren't wanted, and barged in anyway." I snarl. I attempt to push past him; his lean frame was blocking the door. It obviously hadn't occurred to the oaf to move yet. Izzy disappeared into one of the classrooms, leaving me alone to suffer my own grizzly fate. Knowing I couldn't physically make him budge, I opted for verbally.

"You know, I realized why I wasn't thoroughly depressed this morning; you weren't following me around like a lost puppy. Now, get the hell out of the way."

"Nice to see you too, Anne," muttered Richard, as he stepped aside. I brush past with all the dignity I could gather. Then, I hear the bell ring. Screwing dignity, I made a beeline for class.

* * *

The first three periods I had were somewhere on the scale from boring to painful, but nothing compared to the agony of fourth.

Officially, European History was a high level class, consisting only of specially picked kids for their extraordinary "aptitude". In reality, however, the status of your royal or noble lineage was what determined whether you got into the class.

Also, the course title, "European History", is misleading. More accurately, it's an excruciatingly detailed look on the War of the Roses. If there is ever a game show that quizzed you on the Cousins' War, I would win a million pounds effortlessly. Worse yet, you have to take the class every year, in addition to the regular history course. Last year, I strode into the class with interest, thinking it would be a good way to learn more about my family. Ha! I would have done practically anything to skip this time around. But like a terrier, once they have their teeth in you, they weren't letting go.

Presently, I walk into the classroom with a feeling of dread. The funny thing is, how much a horrible creation could look just like a regular classroom; normal desks, a usual white board, bland posters filled the walls. Even the kids already seated were behaving just like mediocre children, besides their private school uniform; the standard white collared shirt and neutral dress pants for the boys, while the girls had a black dress shirt and plaid skirt. Unremarkable, I know. But don't let looks deceive you; this was not a normal class room. This was hell, a cruel and unusual torture chamber. A place that'd suck the life out of you, until you sacrificed yourself on the alter table (also known as the teacher's desk) in the form of an essay or research project, while demonic changelings (also known as your fellow peers) would gladly devour your cold dead corpse during the oral presentation.

But then again, I don't think that's a remarkable thing about a history classroom, either.

All the usual mistrusts were seated at their desks. Two out of the three York sons were lounging about, commanding the room. Edward, the second eldest, was giving a speech about one of his amazing ventures over the summer. He would be telling of them for the next month or so, and never repeating a story. Edward is one of those people who have way too much of a life. All the girls were hanging on to his every word. You would think it was to get in his pants, but Edward had probably slept with them (their sister and mothers too) all already. Next to him, was the impossible girl; the one that actually hitched Edward in a committed relationship. The one and only Elizabeth Rivers.

Edward didn't date. Edward hooked up. One-night stand was practically his middle name, and any girl who wouldn't put out on those terms, was fooled into thinking they were exclusive. That was, of course, only until he got the goods; then he moved on. The fact that he was even seen with this Elizabeth girl, who it was said he met at the beginning of the summer, was unthinkable. Completely out of character. But when you looked at her, you understood this was one girl that could wrap even the grandest Casanovas around her finger.

She was the most beautiful woman you could even imagine; blond hair that shined gold, deep blue eyes, a flawless complexion, taller than any other girl, and body with all the right curves in all the right places. When you look up sophistication in the dictionary, they're a picture of her face. She even made my sister look ugly. She's the kind of person you never want to be standing next to in a group photo. Lucky for me, I'm so short and at least in school it would never happen. Though, I feared for Izzy.

The Rivers', Elizabeth's family, were new to the school, and yet there were a freaking horde of them. While only Elizabeth and her brother, Antony, were in this class, the rest of the relatives were still nearby. You couldn't walk to the school steps without being confronted by a couple dozen angelic faces, swarming you like a pack of sharks. How their parents paid for them all to come here, was beyond me. From what I heard, their father used to be a solider in the army; honorable work, but not known to pay very well. Some even whispered that the reason Elizabeth seduced Edward, was for his family's power.

I have to admit, I didn't like her. She was just too perfect. You couldn't look directly at her, unless you wanted to be blinded by the light she exuded. And the frigidness she could put into her gaze; it could probably freeze the sun.

The desks in the room were arranged in pairs of two; five across and three down. Edward sat front and center. Directly to his left were George and Isabel. George, had all of Edward's looks, but none of his charming personality. Or any personality at all, actually, unless you counted being a dick. Izzy for some reason, unbeknownst to God or anyone else, was besotted with him. I know, I know, Izzy and George do get married in the histories, but still.

All around the room were scattered York courters, talking amongst themselves or just listening to Edward launch into another tale of his. By God, Elizabeth laughed at all the right times and complimented his statements with a word or two of her own. I was starting to form the theory that she was actually a robot or something. No one was that good.

To the right of Edward, resided two empty seats; one was Richard's usual spot, plus someone the Yorks' were trying to gain favor with. I would have guessed Antony would be invited to sit there, but evidently not. I scanned for another empty seat, but found none open. Was there some mistake? There obviously _had_ to be some sort of mistake, others did know I was in this class. Confused, I stood there like a fool while squinting at the seating arrangement, trying to see if there was something I had missed.

Then, it hits me. Seconds later, like an idiot frozen in place, what game is being played. Two empty seats in the front, and the only people not sitting down, were Richard and I. The reasonable part of me declared in anguish that this, was the exact thing I should have expected from these devious bastards. The less reasonable part, however, was busy moaning in horror. I know that the Yorks, and everyone else (including my very own father), want me to date the beloved Richard York. I mentally smack myself; because I should have seen this coming.

The only thing to do was look on the bright side; at least I wouldn't be looking over insanely tall heads in the back, struggling to see the board. Or, when I would try to make the point of how stupid the class was by sleeping through it, Mrs. York would undoubtedly get the message. Still, I would have to spend a whole year, at least, sitting next to Richard. I couldn't exactly say I was happy.

I sat down in a huff. I heard the faint giggles of the people behind me; no doubt anticipating some uber-romantic reconciliation between me and Richard. I resist the urge to turn around, grab the history textbook on my desk, and whack some sense into their pea-sized brains. But on the other hand, it just seemed like a lot of effort to spend on such inconsequential people.

I settle myself in my seat, mentally preparing a number of taunts and comebacks, armed and ready for Richard's arrival. I scoot my chair as far away from the other desk as possible, wishing there was a good mile or so of gap between them. Was it just me, or were these ones narrower than the others I had sat at in previous periods? I wouldn't put it past them.

When Richard does finally show up, I flash him a condescending smile, watching the expression on his face turn to dismay. That almost made this entire ordeal worthwhile. Almost. He approaches with a resigned look, wordlessly sitting down in defeat. He promptly takes out a book from his bag, doing his best to pretend I didn't exist. I watch in mild disdain as he opens it, his dark eyes slowly skimming the pages. Another weird thing about Richard; what football player reads books? Hell, what member of the male gender reads books?

The bell rings, and we all wait for Mrs. York, the wife of the principal, to come out of the back room, the room connecting this and the normal history classroom. A few minutes later, to everyone's surprise, a new face emerges.

She looked older, maybe about fifty. But the golden hair, height, and angelic features made her an unmistakable Rivers. I had not seen this coming. If Elizabeth's mother was the one teaching this class, one of the most important people to the school's administrative board, the Rivers' must have wormed their way into father into the York family than anyone would have predicted. I made a mental note to be wary of these people. They seemed a force to be reckoned with.

Throughout the entirety of class, which may or may not have been less boring than Mrs. York's, I couldn't help but focus not on what Mrs. Rivers was saying but her changes in tone, which where captivating. her voice was like a moving stream; her annoyance like rapids, and her rage like a waterfall crashing down on us. The kids shaped up quickly, becoming obedient and well-mannered in a matter of seconds. Faster than I had ever seen them do for anyone, much less Mrs. York. Even I felt myself become subdued to a point. There was no other explanation. These Rivers' had to be witches! The evidence was overwhelming. How else could they have achieved what they had, in such a short amount of time? I had only heard my father, the York family's most trusted adviser, mention them once. And it was only an annoyed comment, on how attached Edward was becoming to his latest whore. I had thought nothing of it at the time. But now I realize I probably should have paid more attention.

About thirty minutes into class, about the point when I begin checking the clock religiously, it was hard to be patient. I begin counting down the minutes to lunch, the only enjoyable part of the day. I slide my gaze away from the clock to stare at the door, which someone knocked on. We all turn, and the river stops flowing; as in Elizabeth's mom finally shuts up. She glides in a way that only a Rivers' could, until she abruptly stops, reaching the door. She opens it, and my father stands before everyone, his face noticeably grim. I lean over to catch Izzy's eye, but she's too busy trying to catch George's, who clearly isn't paying attention. Richard Neville advanced to the front of the room, surveying the inquisitiveness etched on the faces of the children. Everyone knew who my father was; our family was second only to York.

Everyone was quiet, even Edward gave my father his full attention. The tension in the room could have been cut by a knife. I look around at worried expressions, and mind my own mouth being drawn into a frown. My father's coming could only spell trouble, and in a big way. Unlike Richard York's arrivals, which could mean anything.

He spoke in a commanding voice, full of authority. His dark eyes turned intensely on the three York boys.

"The Red Roses have regrouped…and struck." I heard several gasps around me. I look over, despite myself, and take in the shocked faces of Edward and George. My eyes shifted to the seat next to, taking in Richard's panicked look. I think he knew what was coming. He denied it, but when I looked into his eyes that day, I saw the faint glow of certainty. I found myself breathless, as dread took hold of my heart, crushing it in its grip. We all waited in anxious silence for my father to continue.

"My dear friend, Richard York, and his oldest son, Edmund, were brutally stabbed today, by Margret Anjou's thugs. Neither of them survived."

* * *

_Richard's world stopped. The cacophony of voices from his brothers were little more than a far off murmur to him; shouts of rage, others crying out in disbelief and horror. His mind refused to acknowledge what Richard Neville had told him, refused to accept his words. His father, and Edmund. It wasn't possible. They couldn't just- cease to exist. His mind skipped over the word dead. It wasn't true. It couldn't be true. They had to be hidden out somewhere, escaped, safe and sound, they couldn't be-_

_ "__Richard," murmured a soft voice, bringing him out of his stupor._

_He looked beside him to see Anne, shock, but there was an acceptance in her eyes that Richard refused to acknowledge. He focused on her, something from the real world, fierce condescending mocking, she never let him get away with anything, beautiful- He grasped onto her voice like a life line. Words spilled out her month and she choked on them. She tried to get our something coherent_

_ "__I-I can't- I'm sorry." _

Sorry for what?_ He thought,_ they're not dead. _He heard screaming. Crying. Yelling. Whimpering, moaning. Voices enveloping other voices, overlapping one another; some were loud shouts, some hushed rasps, while others were quiet murmurs. Suddenly the noise was too much for him, it had steadily grown from a dull roar into an outright assault. He couldn't take it, he had to get away._

_ "__Richard," Anne pleaded, her voice seemed clear in the din, distinct, set apart. He met her eyes. a deep crystal blue, more like glass than his brother's gemstone hues. He felt himself drowning. He shoved the desk away from him carelessly. Stumbling with large steps, the thought of escape was the only thing clear in his hazy mind._

_ "__Richard!" she yelled, but things were getting quiet again. Sounds succeeding back into the same dull roar they had begun with her voice sunk back as well. He realized he didn't have to acknowledge it if he didn't want to._

_She called him again, but he didn't answer. She followed him as he barreled down the hallway, he didn't turn around. When he finally got outside, she told him if he didn't stop that instant, she would dislocate his knee with a strong kick, and he wouldn't be able to play that season. But he was already running._

* * *

_A/N: _This is kind of the prologue chapter, set up the scene before I get into the really good stuff later.

The thing about this is it's the entire war of the Roses something that takes place over Anne's entire life crushed into a one year period. Some things are going to be changed, (For instance Elizabeth of York is going to be Elizabeth Woodville's cousin and not daughter.) some things are going to be jumbled chronologically, (especially pregnancies and such.) and some things just are not going to happen at all. Plus I am really going to be changing some stuff at the end watch for Witch's Prophecy and you'll see what I mean.

Rating it M for safety. This is my first fanfic and I don't know exactly how I am going to do certain parts that may sway T or M we'll see.

I have to thank my beta reader/editor. I am useless at all things conventions, and if it wasn't for her you probably would not be able to even read this it would be so bad thank you thank you thank you!


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two: Birthdays and Candles

* * *

This is the beginning of my tale. Richard York's death marked a turning point in my life. This event forced my fate, and the fate of those around me, onto a trail well-traveled but not worn. It was full of speed bumps and traps, traveling at a hundred miles per hour, hurtling toward the cliff that we would surely go over. This is the beginning of my journey toward oblivion.

It had been four days since Richard York's death.

It was a time for grief and tears, and cursing at the unfairness of the world. I mean, someone had just been killed, snuffed out, gone. All those days and moments that he could have experienced, that others could have experienced with him; all erased with the flick of a knife.

When I see the York boys simmering in anger, I can feel Richard desperately attempting to hold himself together. The only emotion I could summon was guilt. I didn't think I was in any way responsible for his death, of course not, but there was some crime in not feeling the pain that was so obvious in those around me. Every step is not a burden, but I couldn't shake the feeling that they should have been.

This guilt haunted me, but stronger than that, was a sense of foreboding. Inside those boys, anger consumed them. All they could think of was revenge. I was afraid of this.

The motorcar stopped and I was brought back to reality. Silver lexis, leather seats, parents sitting upfront, Izzy beside me. I peered out the window and drew back; an unremarkable empty street was the grand view outside. This didn't look like somewhere I'd choose to celebrate a birthday, let alone a sweet sixteen. My sister looked just as confused as I felt. Frowning, I surveyed the mundane scene around us. My mother sighed loudly, muttering something I couldn't make out to my father. He laughed, and told her to wait in the car, that they would just be a minute. Mother didn't seem pleased with his answer, and sat back sulkily. My father turned his face toward us.

He had black curling hair and a pale face like my sister. He was also tall like her, but the resemblance ended there. George once said that my father had the face of a weasel, and that I inherited it from him. I slapped him well for that, and the look on his face was totally worth the week suspension. There was some truth in his statement; not the weasel part, but that we had similar faces. He was a very thin man, but imposing. He filled up a room completely, demanding attention.

"Come girls," he said.

He turned and got out of the car. I shot a quick glance at my sister before we hurried to join him. Getting out of the car, we took in the vastness of the ordinary that surrounded us. We had parked next to a row of boring town houses that seemed to stretch on forever; lined along a boring paved street, lined with boring street lights, and all the other boring that I am sure you can imagine that lined every else. It had to be the most ordinary place I had ever been in my entire life.

My father had begun to step along the sidewalk. as my sister glided to catch him, I barreled in my heels, trying to impale myself on a boring mailbox.

Even when we reached him, we had some difficulty keeping up. He was walking fast, and people with short legs shouldn't have to keep up with those more fortunate. There's a reason why I didn't join the track team.

Eventually, we turned a corner and he slowed, thank God. But after we began to walk at a more gradual pace, I began to wonder why we were here. It was my sister's birthday, after all. My sister didn't seem to be enjoying herself either, probably wondering the exact same thing. My father's face, however, gave away no secrets. So we were ultimately left to wait until he decided to enlighten us.

After a lengthy moment of walking in still silence, he finally spoke.

"Do you notice anything strange about this place?" he asked.

Figures; a question. But the only way to get anything out of our father, was by playing along. So, we looked around, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. As I said before, it was probably the most mundane place in world.

"Father?" asked Isabel, looking as if she was fed up. I know I was.

"The houses," he continued leisurely, ignoring her questioning tone, "They look as you might expect, except for a small detail."

They were literally just blocks of flats; nothing that should be warranting this kind of interrogation.

"Well," Isabel shrugged, "They kind of look poor. Like, old." She paused, unsure of what else to say.

Then, I did notice something. Part of what made it look so boring, was that all of the curtains where open. And by all, I mean every single one. In almost all, a faint glow was visible. Almost like a small flame flickering in the light breeze.

"The candles," I blurted.

My father looked down at me, nodding in visible approval. I smiled to myself, feeling just the slightest bit clever; observing what my older and more beautiful sister could not. Izzy snorted as she saw my expression.

"Yes," he resumed, "the candles, exactly. Do you know what those candles mean?"

He received a puzzled silence in response.

"Don't they like, signify the star of Bethlehem or something?" Isabel tried again, attempting to redeem herself.

"It's September, not December; that prefix is kind of important," I snapped, Isabel flushed. She met my gaze, shooting me an angry look.

"No," Our father agrees, causing to Izzy let out a huff of defeat. My father glanced at me. I flushed also, unable to think of a response. He questioned us further.

"Do you know how many men in these cities are fighting for the Plantagenet gang wars?"

Alright, now I will admit I have not been completely forthcoming with you about everything that's going on. You're probably like, "Plantagenet gang wars, what on earth he is talking about?"

Here's the thing, White Rose High didn't always belong to the York family. In fact, their control over the institution was actually rather new, just in the past decade. Before, Richard and his wife Cecily York were head of the school and board. Henry Lancaster and Margret Anjou held sway.

Yeah, _that_ Margret Anjou. This is probably when you're starting to put the pieces together.

The school had been passed down through the Lancastrian family from generation to generation, said to be founded by one of the illegitimate children of the original Margret of Anjou's son. If this was actually true or not, I have no idea, but honestly it really doesn't matter. They justify, everyone else goes along with it, everything runs smoothly.

While the Lancasters did _seem_ to have a family right to the school, they allegedly were mismanaging finances and stuff like that. In order to protect the interests of the school (you know, more justification), a faction of the board of administrators, headed by Richard York and my father, were able to take away possession of the school from the Lancasters. The family was forced to seek safe haven with Margret Anjou's relatives, who were in with a rival gang on the south side of the city.

Henry, Margret, and their followers unsurprisingly did not take kindly to this slight. All the students faithful to Lancasters moved into a small school built by their supporter's, the Tutors. They all vowed to take back the school, and get revenge on the York family and their allies.

Okay, history, great…now what does that history lesson have to do with this "Plantagenet gang war" that my father brought up? I'm getting to that.

Now, this is a big fuss for a school. At least, I thought so, before I realized there was more to it. You see, Three Sons of York High-or Plantagenet Prep, as it was called in those days is only a front for a very real, and very dangerous gang related organization. Richard York may have been the principal of White Rose High, but that's why he was killed. After ousting a regime, he made a lot of powerful enemies.

So, in review, the lunatics that believe they're reincarnations of old royals, have banded together in illegal establishments to kill each other.

And they're doing a pretty good job of it, too.

Class is now out of session

Izzy knew the answer to this inquiry of my father's.

"A lot!" she said confidently, looking rather pleased with herself.

I inhaled deeply, holding back a laugh at her answer.

"A lot." Richard Neville agreed, "Two windows for each flat, I assume. Now, there are a few pairs with none; but most have at least one, some two, even three or four. I count ten in that building alone; ten buildings stretching out in front of us, a mirror image on the other side, and the same behind us. That doesn't even begin to count the number of flats in the city, or those who don't live in flats at all, but instead in the ghettos and slums."

"So they burn a lot of candles," Isabel stated impatiently, annoyed that they were spending her birthday talking about the candles of common people. Me? Well I was sucked in. All of father's questions had enticed my curiosity and I eagerly awaited his explanation.

I stared up at our father, as he finally began to.

"In a lighthouse by the sea, the glowing lantern cuts through the storm, leading sailors to safe harbor. The idea is that by shining a light in your window, it shows soldiers to safe heaven. When a man goes away to war, a candle is put up in the window to guide him back home."

"But what war?" asked Isabel, irritation seeping into her voice. A lump started to form in my throat as I counted all the candles burning in windows; imagining these men leaving their families for war, and because of us. A father kissing his young daughter's forehead as he heads to the door, a son hugging his weeping mother as he leaves for the front, a lover holding his wife's hand for the last time; all because of us.

"Our war," our father confirmed, echoing my thoughts. "They fight for us. For our new commander, Edward of York. For justice, freedom, and glory."

He let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair before continuing.

"That, of course," he announced, "is not what this is all about, but it's a pretty sentiment that keeps these people happy to die for us."

With a shake of his head, he sated "Those foolish York boys may think they're fighting for some noble cause, but all that means is they're too naïve to realize what game is being played. They fight for power, they fight to destroy those who would destroy them. No honor, just a game, and winner takes all."

He paused,, swallowing. "Its times like these," he trailed off, staring off at the houses and candles.

We all stood in heavy silence. The air was thick with tension. I looked up at my father and saw a twisted expression. I hadn't seen him grieve for Richard York, at least not the way the boys did. I saw it then. It was one of the only times I can remember seeing real, deep emotion from him, and never like that. This was one of the memories I held close when all turned against him; when they called him selfish, greedy, uncaring.

We stopped abruptly at the end of a block, and turned. Scurrying through a narrow alleyway, we emerged on another street, just as boring as the one we had left. The pavement was wider, but I saw no other difference. The three of us stepped out.

At the end of the street, we saw a small, medieval-looking church with a large courtyard hemmed in by black iron fences. After seeing it, I knew exactly where we were.

The city was built around this Catholic Church. Legend had it, that this was where the original Edward of York and his bride, Elizabeth of Rivers, had their secret and debatably valid marriage. It was located in the center of the city, and marked the non-mans-land that divided the north and south side, and more importantly, the different gang's territories.

As my father started to walk toward it, my sister and I followed along. Exchanging perplexed glances, we both had no idea why our father led us to this place. Nobody normal came here, not if they could help it. If you were Catholic, you went to little churches jammed between buildings. Never this one. It was said, that it was haunted by the spirits of Queen Elizabeth's two little boys; the ones murdered in their beds back in the fifteenth century, though no one knows who slayed them. Despite the fact that the children were killed in the tower of Louden, and not in this church didn't really matter; everyone still believes it. Hell, they believe they're the royals of past centuries, what's a ghost story? I didn't believe it, of course.

As we approached, though, I began to feel uneasy. Isabel looked as if she was considering turning and running, but my father plowed on ahead, so she begrudgingly plowed on with him.

Even if you don't believe in ghosts or the super natural, once you've heard a place whispered about enough, it gains an air of mystery that will set your teeth on edge. I felt it. Isabel, who does believe in such things, certainly felt it. We hesitated a second before stepping inside. Was I imagining it? I could have sworn as soon as I had crossed, I felt a cold breeze whistle by. The hairs on my neck stood up straight.

I shoke off my overactive imagination. Ridiculous, I was letting those stupid stories get to me. If no one else in this town was sane, I had to be, and that meant not getting upset about a bit of wind and a nonsensical ghost story.

I practically had to pull Isabel in, and she screeched while stumbling through the gate. When she righted herself, she shivered while rubbing her arms, I could see gooseflesh. Unease crept back, but I refused to let it take hold. I was being irrational. Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I hurried toward my father, who was already getting out of sight.

My sister and I hastened to catch up. He was walking on the ancient stone path that encircled the church building. The only thing it led to was the cemetery, which must have been the reason for our visit. Once I had realized where we were going, it was pretty easy to piece together why. My heart sank; this wasn't something I wanted to face now, with so many confusing emotions swirling around.

About thirty meters behind, we kept pace with him. My sister seemed to be expecting something horrible to happen; a ghost to appear and rip her heart out or an ancient spirit to steal her away into some cellar. She jumped at shadows and her pale face looked utterly terrified. I might have found into amusing under different circumstances, but since I wasn't behaving much better I could make fun. It was the type of graveyard, that when it grew dark, you expected mist to settle in. I could totally see a guy with a skull in his hand shouting, "Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him,"

The sun was starting to set in earnest; red, orange and purple light, watercolors splashed across the sky. The last rays of the sun desperately reached out for someone to grab on, and pull it free, before it was engulfed by darkness. The light cast great shadows, which seemed to stretch forever. Everything was bathed in these strange colors. The inky blackness and acrylic tones gave the graveyard a surreal feeling, as if I were traveling along a picture in a well-worn book. My father faced the light, and his shadow stretched out along with the tomb stones beside him. He was stopped in front of one, it looked like any other. Isabel and I stopped a little ways behind him, giving him space.

He stood before the grave of Richard York. I remember it being so unassuming, a single slab with rounded off corners. The name and date carved in it, and an engraving stating, "Beloved Father". Richard York had been so extraordinary in life, it was so strange how undistinguished he was in death. A mediocre wedge of concrete was his only legacy.

"Richard wanted peace," my father said tiredly.

I looked up at him and was struck by how exhausted he seemed.

"He wanted justice." He looked away, gazing into the setting sun. There was something akin to defeat in the way he stood. Richard Neville, so proud ,so sure and undaunted; not any longer, not in this moment.

He turned, and regained some of his composure, becoming the man I knew my father to be. He walked briskly away, and we followed back the way we came.

I looked up at the church, and saw a figure. A pale face with jet-black hair braided behind her, a blood-red dress that hung modestly about her; the woman stood in a doorway. We were close enough that I was able to make out her straight posture; her head tilted up, her back like a rod. Glancing towards her eyes, I saw them filled with a disapproving glint, along with something else—triumph.

She turned, and walked back into the church. I wondered who she was, though I had no doubt she was of the Lancasters, silently gloating at the death of our leader.

That was the moment I began to hate them.

"While Edward might not know the game being played," my father began, as we walked quickly through the alleyway, "that Elizabeth Woodville certainly does. She's a cunning one."

"Woodville?" I asked confused, as we headed down the streets, back toward our car.

"I forgot, they call themselves Rivers now." His answer was mocking. "No, they are Woodvilles, not even from the original Elizabeth. They have no connection to our noble blood line, no matter what they say."

"I don't like her," muttered Isabel.

"She's smart," our father nodded, "and cunning. Beautiful too, only a fool would deny that. A woman like that could go far, and she has. Under different circumstances, she would have been a great ally."

I wrinkled my nose; Being friends with Elizabeth? Not in this world or the next.

"But her paranoia makes that impossible," he continued, "she trusts only Edward and her family. She thinks me a snake in the grass, trying to steal all that's dear to her. She is our greatest enemy; remember that, girls."

"Isn't Margret of Anjou our greatest enemy?" I blurted out, unable to stop myself

"Hardly," our father responded, shaking his head, "she may think herself great, but her pride makes her easily manipulated. The Beaufort girl is probably more dangerous than her-and she believes she's sent from God to do his work!"

He barked out a laugh while recalling the girl, before glancing back at me.

"You saw her at the doorway."

I nodded, connecting the dots in my head. Margret Beaufort, or now Tudor, I suppose, she had recently married. She was an odd one. She thought she was some sort of saint, and sang the tune that God wanted all Yorks to die, blah blah hellfire etc. She was undoubtedly insane, but pretty important in the Lancastrian hierarchy. Her brother-in-law* was second in line to the throne, after Henry's son, Edward.

"We must take steps to protect ourselves against those Woodvilles" my father said, his tone firm.

I glanced at my sister, she seemed subdued. For the first time in an hour, I remembered this was her sixteenth birthday. I looked up at my father, wondering why today of all days, he decided to take us out to Richard York's grave. Surely yesterday or tomorrow would have been just as good.

My father always had a reason for doing the things he did, though, and I decided to just sit back and wait to discover what those reasons where. They would come out, eventually.

We finally got back to the car, and climbed in wordlessly. My mother sat huffing and puffing, evidently irate. My father started the car, and she began to give him a thorough piece of her mind, stating how long he made her wait.

"That surely wasn't a minute," she said, her voice saturated with annoyance.

She went on and on; continuing about how she had better things to do than sit in a car, while he went gallivanting off to who knows where, with their daughters, doing who knows what.

"I have more important things to be spending my time on!" She exclaimed.

My father attempted to soothed her, and in the fifteen minutes the car ride lasted, he was able to get her into a relatively calm state. By calm, I mean silent sulking, as she stared out the window refusing to talk to anyone.

We parked in front of Izzy's favorite restaurant, and she gasped in delight, as if things were finally going her way. I smirked at her; she knew full well I couldn't stand this place. She gave me a chiding look that was all together too motherly for my taste, so I stuck my tongue out in reply.

I jumped out of the car, and almost fell on my face, forgetting about the heels. My mother gasped in horror, telling me how I was behaving like a child.

_Well, until I'm eighteen, I am technically a child, _I reasoned,_ and therefore, I should act like one._

We all followed Izzy, and she excitedly yet dignifiedly, hurried toward the entrance. We waited a few minutes, and then were seated. I sat in the booth patiently, and a server asked for our drinks. We all ordered tea, except my mother, unsurprisingly wanted something a bit stronger.

"The finest wine you have!" She proclaimed.

I was certain my mother's goal in life was to advertise to every single person in the entire world how wealthy we were. It was kind of embarrassing.

I hear my sister sigh, and I share a look with her. I picked up the menu in front of me, and scrutinized the page. The words were clearly legible, but my mind wasn't processing the different letters. There was some sort of barrier between my brain and productive thought.

My mind kept wandering to the words my father had said to me and my sister. War? Games? I myself had labeled Margret of Anjou our enemy, and while yes, she had assassinated our family friend, but what is this? Some fantasy novel with some epic battle between good and evil? The whole thing just seemed ridiculous. Normal people labeled killers as murders, or criminals.

My sister seemed to be just as on edge. I glance over at her, watching as she chewed her lip while scanning the menu. Her eyes flitting from choice to choice, before she set down her menu carefully, flustered. She glared at her tea, as if it were the source of all her problems. Fidgeting for a moment before picking up the menu again, she examined it. The whole act was pointless though, since I knew she always had the same thing; chicken salad.

My eyes returned to my own menu. I, on the other hand, truly had no idea. Half the things listed sounded like they would make me sick, the others remaining I couldn't even pronounce.

I took a roll of bread. Normally, I would have just shoved it in my mouth; but I found myself breaking off a dainty piece, applying a thin layer of butter, then plopped it in my mouth. I slowly chewed, tasting the crisp bread with the melting butter, before swallowing.

Damn! Had I just spent that much time thinking about how to eat a piece of bread? I looked around the dimly-lit, four star restaurant suspiciously. Had this place's atmosphere tricked me into giving a shit? Unacceptable. I tore another piece off the roll again, and stuffed half of it in my mouth, staring defiantly at a passing by waiter.

"Please, Anne," my mother said, looking down her nose at me distastefully, "act with some dignity."

I briefly entertained the idea of stuffing the rest of the bread in my mouth before swallowing, but decided it wasn't worth dealing with my mother's displeasure for the rest of the night. I withdrew my hand grumblingly, hunching my shoulders. My mother eyed me, and I straightened up, but not before letting out a theatrical sigh. Isabel giggled, but with an infuriated glare from mother, she quickly silenced while returning her gaze back to her menu.

I may have inherited my mother's name, but Izzy inherited her serene beauty. They had the same porcelain features and graceful bearing. The only difference was their eyes. Our mother's were ice blue, like mine. Izzy had our father's warm brown. While our father's eyes were so much deeper and caring, I could use mother's cold sapphire glance for much more practical things, like scaring stupid people out of doing things they would later regret.

My mother was in a foul mood, but then again, she almost always was. However, my father seemed relatively calm. He seemed cheerful enough; but there was something in his voice that seemed hollow, a note in his laugh that rang false.

Bored, I tried to unwrap the napkin from the silverware. The spoon slipped out and clattered obnoxiously to the floor. If a passerby had seen my mother's face, they would've thought someone had been shot. My sister winced, and shot me a look that told me I was on my own. Against my mother, it's every woman for herself.

"Anne Neville!" She exclaimed, summoning all of her dignified horror, "I thought I taught you better than that! I-"

"Anne, darling," our father interrupts while glancing at our mother, stopping her mid-rant. She stiffened in rage, angry that he was undermining her.

"It's a special night," he continues casually, "why don't you wait until after dinner to reprimand her?"

She settles back into her chair, glaring at him, though he didn't acknowledge it. He chats politely with my sister and me for a while-you know, those useless yet pleasant conversations about nothing-as I showed my wit and Isabel showed off her eloquence for him to admire, the way it's always been. He seemed happy enough; laughing at my jokes or countering my sister's long words with longer words, until I would cut in, asking them to speak English.

It was nice, familiar, but I noticed whenever my father's gaze would briefly wander to window, as if staring in the direction of his best friend's grave.

Our mother, however, had nothing to contribute except sulking. And when she grew tired of that, she started throwing jabs.

"What's gotten you into such high spirits today?" She asked accusingly to her husband, as if being happy was one of the most appalling crimes she could conceive.

"Why wouldn't I be?" our father returned flatly, "Is there some reason I should be dismal or upset? I can't think of one. It is our daughter's birthday, and I've arranged something with Edward that will benefit our family greatly. I believe it'll please Isabel just as much."

I glance at Izzy, soundlessly asking her if she has any notion as to what he's referring to. She shakes her head in response. Our mother seemed just as puzzled as we were.

"And what is this arrangement you have not spoken to me of?" Our mother demanded.

"Yes, ah, a moment," he answered coolly, "here comes the waiter."

The server refilled our drinks, and took down our orders. My sister did end up having the chicken salad-big surprise-and I ended up just getting the same, since I still hadn't decided when he asked me.

The man left swiftly, and my father continued.

"You see, I talked with the young Edward, and we decided that with his father gone, we need something more than just friendly words and history to bind our two families together."

He paused a moment, and I stared at him in bewilderment.

He glanced across the table at Isabel, and smiled. "I have arranged a deal with Edward, on behalf of Isabel, and agreed that she will be married to George as soon as they graduate."

My sister squealed in obvious delight, as I spit out the mouthful of tea. I don't know what I was expecting, but that definitely wasn't it. My mother yelped in disgust, and before she could stab me with her butter knife, I excused myself and practically ran toward the bathroom to clean myself up and gather my thoughts.

I flew inside through the door, into a blindingly lit bathroom. After the dim lights in the restaurant, I had to wait a moment for my eyes to adjust. Brushing by a few ladies who were chatting at the sinks, I ducked into the nearest stall.

Marriage?! Wasn't that a bit extreme?! I must have heard wrong. Izzy was a junior. She didn't even know where she was going to college! The last thing she should be thinking about was marriage. And to George, of all people! Isabel didn't realize what a nightmare he was, yet. If they really were getting married, she would learn soon enough.

Brother-in-law! I could barely think the words. You know those people that tell you suicide is not the answer? Well, you ask them if they have ever faced the possible reality of becoming related to the most unbearably egotistical person to walk the earth in thousands of years, or maybe ever.

I mean, yes; I am technically related to him currently, considering that his mother, Cecily York, was my dad's adoptive sister. But that really isn't the same thing.

Holy shit, what's to stop my father from doing the same to me? Setting me up with Richard, the way he set Izzy up with George? Granted, he knew I wasn't keen on the idea, but he was a big believer that the survival of the family was more significant than the whims of the individual who was helping it survive.

Well, it had not come to that, yet. I'd cross that bridge when we'd get to it, I suppose. But at the moment, there was the very real possibility of Izzy becoming a York. I had to do something!

But then again, was there even anything I could do?

In a daze, I came out of the bathroom and sat back down at my seat. Mutely, I listened to Isabel's excited exclamations and my mother's disagreeable remarks. We left soon after, and drove home. When we arrived, I ran up to my room and buried my head in the pillow. For now, the soft cushion was a sanctuary from the world. I gasped into it, exhaustion seeping into my bones. Unable to imagine what the next day would bring, let alone the next month.

* * *

A/N:

*historical discrepancy; Henry Tudor is Margret Beaufort's son, not brother-in-law, but I didn't want to screw times and have Margret as old, as say, Anne's father. So, I changed it a bit, though they will have a mother/son relationship of sorts. This is going to happen a lot. Also, later you will notice Elizabeth of York is Elizabeth Woodville/Rivers (damn, I hate how all of their names are the freaking same, you have to attach last names every time) distant cousin instead of daughter. This is because, well, that REALLY wouldn't work age-wise. Plus, I don't really want to open the can of worms regarding incest; those implications into the story just don't work that well. Plus, the phrase "creepy uncle" is not something I plan to associate with Richard in this fic. I figured I mention these changes, so you guys don't think I have no idea what I'm talking about. J


End file.
